


Runaway

by crush (beekeepercain)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Dean Winchester, Alpha John Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Dysphoria, Bottom Sam Winchester, Canon-like Universe, Claiming, First Time, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Omega Sam Winchester, Pre-Series, Top Dean Winchester, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 16:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5877253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/crush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is 16, and his first heat doesn't come as a surprise to anyone. John has it all figured out: he's found a partner for Sam, someone who can ensure his boy gets the kind of a life he deserves before Dean's rut kicks in and ruins any and all chances of it for them both. Unfortunately, a life controlled and spelled out for him by others is the last thing that Sam wants, and he's got plans of his own to escape it - after all, what other choice does he have left but to run?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> Grand kudos to _[Alphas, Betas, Omegas: A Primer](http://archiveofourown.org/works/403644/chapters/665489)_ for making this fic possible, as I have never before wanted to touch this particular trope with a ten foot long pole and therefore knew nothing of it once the urge finally kicked in. God, I am trash. I should live in a trash can. 
> 
> Date idea: take me to the dumpster.

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

John's talking in a low voice, each word crossing the cabin muffled and soft like the growls of an animal. Dean's seated opposite of him, long limbs all over the floor and a cup of fish soup in front of him, still bruised in the face from the hunt earlier. He's got his eyes on Sam, always, but he doesn't see what he doesn't expect - they're both blind like that, and Sam's good at pretending sleep. It's a skill he's honed to near perfection throughout his life, often the only means for him to listen in for information that is so eagerly denied from him: bits and pieces about his mother, for example, of things he shouldn't hear, and, ever only more frequently, things about himself.

"What you've done with your brother, Dean..." John voices, the beginning nothing but a contented, proud gruff of a mutt resting by a fireplace, "... it's nothing short of incredible. You should be proud, son. I've never really told you this, but I raised you to watch over him, yet I never anticipated the man you'd grow into, or the kid you raised out of him. I haven't always been here when you needed me, and I've hardly been here when Sam needed me, but you've done a good job providing what I never could."

Dean's tense; his profile sets against the yellow light of the bulb hanging from the ceiling as that of an anxious man. Sam's seen it before - it's the same profile he wears when a violent spirit has Sam cornered in an old house with storm wind howling above them, threatening to crack the moldy frames holding the ceiling together, or when a black shuck is about to pounce him. A protective stance, not one for receiving compliments. He's not the only one. Sam's body feels cold and tense underneath the thick blanket, and he's got nowhere to run, no voice in this conversation, nothing to defend himself with. And the worst is, Dean can't do anything more than he could. They're both just waiting for the words they both know are coming.

"So," John continues, perhaps disappointed when his soft approach has earned him nothing side of a stiff nod of acknowledgement, "this probably won't come easy to you, but I've got no other choice, son. You know Sam is - he's coming in heat. He's sixteen, it's time for that, and we both know it's happening, keeps us both on the edge, arguing all the time. It's just what it is. And I've got to separate you boys, as hard as that may be; all your life, I've told you to be there for Sammy. I've told you, never let him out of your sight. But you've always known what he is, and what that means for us. We've got him this far. We've done good. _You've_ done good, Dean. He's alive, to start with, but not only that - no one's claimed him yet, no one's ever gotten close enough to try. Which means I can get him a place to be, no question about it; he's a good kid, he deserves nothing less. And that, that is because of you. I couldn't have protected him the way you have, made sure that no one gets their hands on him before it's time, but you've always been there for him and for this family. The only thing I can ask from you anymore is that you let him go when it's time. It won't be long now. I've been asking around, making sure he gets a good alpha, someone around his age who can make sure he gets what he needs, a good education, a family, a safe home."

The next grunt is Dean's. It's the held-back, suffocated protest, the "no way" that he's holding back, the "fuck you, sir" that never makes it past his lips, the welling nausea in his stomach, the same that has bile rising inside Sam's throat with a bitter taste covering the back of his mouth.

"You think that's what he needs?" is what comes out instead.  
It's desperate, not challenging. Not what Sam wants to hear.

John nods.  
"I think that's best for him, Dean."

"It doesn't make any sense. You've trained us our whole lives."

"I've trained you to survive. He doesn't have to anymore. He's made it this far. It's time to let him go, Dean."

"Why? Because it's too dangerous to keep an unclaimed omega around? Too inconvenient to let him stay with his own family?"

The fire's rising. It's not only figurative: the fire in the fireplace cracks and flashes, causing Sam to jump in his bed. He presses his eyes closed and curses himself, afraid that one of the two at the table noticed, but nothing implies either did.

"Because," John utters, and it's a warning growl now, a houndish snarl, "if I don't separate you two, _you_ will be the one who claims him, Dean. And I can't let that happen."

There's a stunned silence. Sam holds his eyes closed and tries not to spring up from the bed and scream. It's the only response he has to the situation - to two men, as if he is not in the room at all, as if he's not a person, debating his future, his whole life. Deciding it for him.

"You're my boys," John finally says, sinks back in his chair and sounds weary like he's grown older by a century or so, "I love you both, I do. But you don't know what it's like, you don't know what a heat does to a guy's head. You've never mated. You've - had your fun with the beta girls, I know that for a fact, but if you think an omega's heat is anything like that, you're dead wrong. And I won't let this come between you and Sam. The last thing I will do is watch you of all people be the one who takes him out of order and ruins his life."

"He's my goddamn brother."

"I know he is. Your biology doesn't care. It's what you're hardwired for, Dean. You know this is how it goes when two kids aren't the same type. He is what he is and you are what you are and as much as I would love to change that, Dean, I can't. I don't know why it happened, why I didn't have two alpha boys or maybe a beta, but it's not unheard of, and it'll keep happening long after we three are all buried. I have to protect him. You understand that, don't you? I have to protect him from you, and from myself. If it was someone else I was worried about, Sam would stay. But we can't do that to him. We _will_ hurt him, Dean, if he stays, and there is no other way to make sure he's safe and has a good place to go through this. It's a first for him, too."

Sam holds his eyes closed when John moves in the kitchen, goes for the soup on the stove and pours more into his cup. Dean's is still on the table, untouched and cold; when Sam peers at him, he's collapsed in his chair, fingertips holding the spoon in a way that implies he's never going to raise it from the soup, staring off into nothing. John turns back, and Sam pretends to be asleep again.

"You need to sleep, son. It's a long drive ahead of us tomorrow."

Dean's chair grinds against the floor. He says something to John - perhaps a dull thank-you for the soup he never ate - and heads into the darkened part of the cabin, undressing on the way in. His weight hits the bed next to Sam's; John's on the couch, never letting either of them take the sleepless nights if he can help it. An odd calm lingers inside Sam as he turns around to face his brother and curls up tighter.

He's got no other choice.

 

* * *

 

They drive most of the next day. John won't say what the occasion is, but Sam's aware enough: he's meeting up with someone, and the meeting's about him. It's not a job, and he's set on leaving Dean with Sam like a guard dog in the hopes that the smell of a virile alpha will keep off any uninvited visitors, just like Dean's always been there to keep off all sorts of monsters. It's a detour, and not only from their planned route across the USA tracking any leads that would have them after whatever it was that killed Mary: it's a detour from their lives altogether, and Sam can't help but feel like a burden. Without him, without this time bomb ticking inside of him, they'd be saving lives out there. But not today. First, they've got to trade him off like some kind of an animal to be bred by whichever stud they deem worthy. The thought makes him sick to his stomach, and he doesn't touch the burger sitting on his lap until it goes cold and Dean snatches it from him. Sam knows he's worried, too: the conflict between following Dad's orders and questioning them is clear on his features, in the frown that he wears like a mask over his often so carefree features. They're moving southeast, driving across the state until the snow turns into fall-like wetness on the road and hanging, bare trees on both sides of the road, the Rockies falling slowly behind them. Late in the afternoon they stop at a diner before the last stretch to their destination, and John disappears to make a call outside - arrangements, no doubt - leaving Sam and Dean inside.

Sam is a walking, talking disturbance. There's not an alpha in the diner, at least he can't pick up the scent, but even the beta audience is intrigued. He reeks, something in him that doesn't leave with water and soap tints his every movement and every breath that he takes, not that the latter matters to anyone else. Right now, he's just meat to them all.

"Get in your lane, freak," Dean snarls at a man who steps too close - it's always the men, never the women, who risk a fight with an alpha, but Dean's formidable enough; 6 feet of lean muscle and honed reflexes, he's been in and out of fights since he could reliably hold a weapon at the age of nine.

It's enough to scare this guy off, but Sam's skin crawls at the thought of another alpha walking in, someone who's too high on testosterone or just the scent of pheromones to know what's best for them. Not that he can't hold his own, but he's just sixteen years old, thin and tall so that he looks much less powerful than he knows that he is. Against someone his size but older, physically stronger and backed up by a heated rut, he doesn't stand much of a chance without Dean by his side. It's only been a couple days since his scent changed, and everything's already going to hell. Despite that, Dean's holding up his poker face: he takes up a seat at a table at the back of the diner with his back to the wall and eyes on the room, tapping the table as if that should make Sam sit down faster. Sam takes the seat opposite of him despite the way it gets his adrenaline flowing. He's never felt quite that exposed, and with his back to the room, the only thing he can do is trust that Dean's got it covered.

The waitress seems to float to them, soundless on her feet, likely summoned by the stirring trouble that just crossed the entire diner smelling like a fight about to happen.

"Hey there, what can I get you?" she asks with a smile that's all dimples and sunshine.

It's enough to relax Dean - Sam can see his shoulders fall at the same times as a flirty grin spreads onto his lips.

"Heya. We'll have three coffees, pork with grilled onions, chicken salad and a cheeseburger with fries."

"Coming right up."

Sam brushes his hair off his forehead and breathes out as the waitress leaves. His eyes wander to the parking lot outside, and the picture perfect sunset falling into the embrace of coniferous treetops blanketing the rest of the view all the way up to the rugged horizon at the end of the world. John's leaning to the Impala with his phone pressed against his ear, eyes on the same sunset that Sam's watching, and for the first time, Sam feels his stomach knot at the sight of him.  
"Did he tell you what we're here for?" he asks quietly, waking Dean up from whichever daydream the man has gotten lost in within the past few seconds.

Dean turns his head towards the window and finds John as reliably as ever - he watches him for a while before answering.  
"No," he speaks then, "he didn't tell me anything. It's not a case, though, so..."

"Yeah," Sam mutters, gaze falling towards the freshly wiped table, "I guess we both know anyway."

He feels Dean's eyes move over him now, watching him inspectingly for a moment. If a part of him wished that Dean would deny it, even lie about it, that hope is gone now. Just as lost as Sam feels, Dean turns his gaze back towards the window and nods slowly.  
"It's gonna be alright, Sam," he says then, voice uncertain despite the way he tries to fake it.

Sam scoffs, turns his head towards the kitchen and away from Dean. He's hungry, but more than that he still feels nauseous, and the thought of eating feels like submitting to whatever fate is being planned for him. It takes him a while to realise that he'd rather starve than be led across the states towards some final destination like this, but as if offended by the thought, his gut twists painfully with a pang of hunger.

 _Not yet_ , he tells himself firmly, teeth nipping at the skin of his lips and tearing away until he tastes blood.

Anxiety rides within him like an unwanted passenger, and its thin, croaking voice answers quickly: _what if you won't get a chance to do it later?_ it asks him.

He checks the canvas painted outside the window again and lets his nerves rest on certainty.  
_I won't get a chance to do it now_ , he tells the voice, and it settles to rest again.

The coffees land on the table with a cheerful voice accompanying them, and Sam holds out his hand to grab his. It tastes bitter, but he raises his head and smiles wearily at the waitress anyway, telling her thank you as if to remind her that he, too, is a human being sitting at the table, not just his brother, because she, like everyone else, is trying to act like he doesn't exist to begin with. It's easier to ignore the elephant in the room, he figures as he settles back in the seat, lurching against the window and letting his head loll against the panel.

He's not sure which it is, the lack of sleep from his worries or the heat that gnaws at his body, but he's tired and all he wants is to curl up in the backseat for a couple more hours until he can drag his body across yet another vaguely familiar parking lot to a yet another vaguely familiar motel room and crash until nightmares, or just the sense of impending doom, rouse him up again. It's all the same, in the end; he'll be awake at the asscrack of dawn and it'll be another day closer to the day he'll become nothing but someone else's property. But in the end, it won't make much of a difference - he's already property, his father's property. The only thing that will change is that he'll be there to be fucked rather than dragged all over the country like luggage.

Nausea wells up inside him again and he downs a gag with a dry swallow.

Damned if you do, damned if you don't: in the end, it's not about being sold at the market like a slave to the highest bidder with the best lineage, as if his genetics and background could afford him anything but a neat trailer park at best. His fate wouldn't change even if he stayed. Slowly, he turns his eyes to look at his brother, alpha like their father is - he's lost in thought, the constellation of freckles on his face highlighted by the golden sun reaching for the treeline. He doesn't seem bothered, but John is; John's been on the edge for days, ever since sniffing out the very first changes in his son's scent. Dean can pick it up, too, or at least he should be able to. The fact that they're brothers doesn't mean anything to the drive that is as uncaring when it comes to societal taboos as a beast that has never had to face up with civilization. The instinct that keeps beta siblings from experiencing attraction towards each other doesn't exist between an alpha and an omega, yet when Sam looks at his brother, it's impossible to imagine him turning against him, or imagine there being a strong enough force that would drive him to hurting Sam. All his life, Dean's been the solid rock for Sam, the one thing that would always be there, and the thought of that all coming to an end with nothing but a scent is unthinkable for him.

Such childish, naive, whistful thinking.  
_Anything that gets you through the day, Sammy,_ the voice sneers at him.  
He shakes it off with a burning gulp of his coffee, watching John outside lower the phone and tuck it back in his pocket.

"Eat your food, Sammy," Dean's voice prompts him, and he pushes a plate that could have as well formed out of thin air on the table before him closer to Sam, "or I'll start feeding it to you."

In slow-motion, Sam picks up the fork and sticks it into the salad. He'll need the strength later on - worst case scenario, and he might have to make a run for it.

 

* * *

 

They go through a couple motels asking if there are alphas checked in, if it's safe for Sam to stay. At the last one they finally book a room for three and haul the usual pile of bags into the room. No one's talking after yet another fight earlier: the atmosphere is tense, especially between Dean and John, but the silence suits Sam just fine. This is not how he wants to remember his family, but he's got no other choice now. He climbs into bed early despite the noise of the TV just feet away from his bed, expecting to pretend sleep until it finally swallows him for real, but he drifts off in minutes. His dreams are flashes, unusual by all measures, deep and filled with scents and a pressure within the pit of his stomach that makes his lips part and heavy breaths slither out like half-drowned gasps. It all twists around his spine and squeezes until he's aching and the pain is radiating to his stomach, and he wakes up panting - trembling - with the front of his boxers wet and a slick feeling between his legs. Instead of getting up, he sits for a while with his back to the wall, head pressed between his knees and arms around his legs, shaking, holding back tears: no matter how he looks at it, whatever's out there for him looks terrifying. And now even he can smell himself, that sweet, deep scent that radiates from his skin, from the wetness of his clothes; it tints the usually neutral smell of his fresh sweat, too, like his glands are producing musk.

And he's hard. God, he's _aching_. Despite the orgasm he felt in his sleep, it's not going anywhere - it's still there, mocking him, making it clear that it doesn't matter what _he_ wants. It's going to be the way it wants, regardless of his own will. Worse yet, as if it wasn't bad enough that he can smell himself, he can smell his brother and his father, too. Every breath of fresh air is filled with their scents and it's driving him up the wall, like he's drinking wine with his lungs and instead of oxygen it's alcohol seeping into his veins. His ears are sharp, and he hears the difference in Dean's breathing, the tension in it, just a foot or two to his right in the middle bed, but John's snoring quietly on the other side of the room and maybe, just _maybe_ , the smell doesn't reach that far as piercing as Sam feels it where he sits.

Uninvited, he's visioning his father's hands holding him in place, pressing him into that mattress, and closing his eyes doesn't help. This time, swallowing does nothing; the gag breaks through anyway, and the last thing he needs is to throw up now. He's shaking even worse than before when he slips out of bed and stumbles towards the bathroom, legs barely holding underneath him as he locks the door and sobs dryly as he presses his back against it. His cock stirs against his boxers and he presses a hand over it, then presses harder until it hurts, and in a moment of numb thoughtless frustration, he slaps it hard as if hoping that violence will teach it to listen. The pain just makes the anger worse - he leans onto the sink and strips the dirty boxers off of him, then his sweat-soaked shirt, and for a moment he stands there in the nude just watching the dirty tiles on the walls hoping the world will suddenly collapse around him.

Nothing happens.

The shower water runs cold, but Sam can't bring himself to care: in seven minutes, his body finally relaxes. He washes off the slick between his legs first to be rid of the constant reminder, but while he's at it, he closes his eyes and slides a finger inside himself just to see how easily it can be done now. There's no resistance. His flesh is hot in contrast with the cool water, but he pulls his finger out soon enough, moves it around the ring of muscle with his eyes staring blindly at the wall ahead of him, and then takes the soap and washes his hands and his body in its entirety, trying to scrub off the smell from it.

His body weights a ton when he seats himself on the toilet with a towel wrapped around his shoulders. His own existence disgusts him, and he's aware of his skin like he's never been before, of each muscle beneath it, of the layers of fat and the beating of his heart pumping blood inside his veins. All of it, _all of it,_ is doing its part in betraying him, and he wants nothing more than to step out of it like it's a rubber suit. The idea of leaving it on the floor of the shower room seems inviting and he tries to breathe out the need to sneak in a machete to open up a cut from his groin to his neck as if he could walk through it to freedom. His hair drips water on the floor, and his eyes are stuck on the sight for a good long while: nothing in his world moves, not even the time, nothing but those drops of water and the ever growing puddle that they're forming. Then, a soft knock wakes him up again.

"Sammy?" Dean asks, his voice quiet and soft, barely loud enough to carry through the thin door, "You alright in there?"

Sam doesn't know what to answer. Instead, he pulls himself up and realises he didn't bring any new clothes with him. He clears his throat and moves to the door.

"Could you get me a shirt and a pair of boxers?" he asks just as quietly, fingers moving to the lock and twisting it open.

"Sure. Give me a second."

He listens to Dean move on the other side, hears the sound of a zipper being dragged open, and then some fumbling around until Dean's there again.  
  
"Got it."

The door opens with a small creak. For a second, nothing happens, but then Dean's hand is there, pushing fabric in through the opening.

"Thanks."

Sam pulls the clothes through and closes the door again. He doesn't hear Dean moving away as he dresses up, and when he sneaks out of the bathroom, the older's still standing there. Sam passes him and sits on his bed, pulls in his legs and drags the blanket up over his body, back pressing against the wall again. Quietly, Dean follows him there; he sits on the side of his bed and reaches his hand out and into Sam's hair. Sam wants to push him away - he's sixteen, for fuck's sake - but it feels too good and he needs it too much to even flinch away from it. Instead, he feels tears forming up in his eyes, but thank God it's too dark to see them.

"You're not taking this too well, are you," Dean talks to him in the same low, soft voice he used before.

John's snoring grows louder for a moment, then fades out; the man turns in his bed, making a sound before his breathing turns back to the heavy, deep breaths that always tone his sleep.

"I don't want this."

Dean's hand runs another circle in Sam's wet hair, fingers slipping through the curls.  
"I know," he says, and his voice is sincere.

"You don't get it."  
Sam's doing his best not to start shouting - all he can do is hiss, the sharpness of his whispers cutting like the edge of a razor.  
"You're not the one being handed away like you're nothing but a hole to be bred. You're not the one that's being dragged from state to state with 24 hours of surveillance on you so that nobody unqualified rapes you. You're not the one who's days away from being 'claimed' by some stranger you'll be tied to for the rest of your life, just property moving from an owner to another, like you're not _human,_ like nothing you feel or want or say doesn't matter, like you're less than anyone else. You know what? You keep - you keep watching over me so that no one gets to claim me before someone you _chose_ does, but to me, it doesn't make a difference. It's one stranger or the other. It _doesn't matter_ , Dean, because it's rape either way. I don't want this. I don't want to live like this. I don't want my life dictated by others, _controlled_ by others, because of what I am, because of things I can't change, like I'm less than you are because of the way I was born. I'd rather die. Dean, I'd rather _die._ "

Sam swallows, his breath hitching, and they both look over at John for a frozen moment in which neither of them moves or breathes or says anything at all. There's no change, however - the man still sleeps as tight as ever, exhales long and rough or nothing but puffs, inhales heavy and short. Dean moves first: he's dropped his hand from Sam's hair, and now it moves to his hand instead. His fingers slide over Sam's skin before he retreats again, sensing the growing tension and the burning anger inside his younger brother, and finally lands his hands on his own lap.

"You know what?" he asks, voice barely more than a whisper, "You're right. I don't get it. I have no idea what any of that feels like, because I was born this way, and no one would ever treat me like they treat you."

"Like _you_ treat me."

"Like we treat you, yeah."

The agreement calms the painful beating of Sam's heart somewhat. It's easier to breathe now, too; Dean's close and he's still smelling him, but after the shower, after calming down, it's not so overpowering anymore.

"But you know what?" the older continues, his eyes inspecting Sam seriously, "I'm not your enemy. I can't change the way the world works, but I don't want this any more than you do. I promise you, I don't. I know you, Sam. I know how much you want to be your own guy. And this whole - this arranged marriage thing? It's just putting a rope around your neck, and I'm not - I'm not okay with that. You're my brother, Sam. You think I don't care about what's happening to you? You think this is just another thing for me and I'll carry on like you never existed while some douchebag we've never met in our lives is having his way with you? You think I want that for you?"

It's not what Sam expected. He finds himself straightening up, his eyes wider than a moment ago, looking at Dean trying to find some proof of him not meaning what he says, or for any indicator of there being a "but" coming down the line. There's nothing, however, just an open, responsive look on Dean's features, and a painful seriousness that matches that of Sam's. There's no anger anymore, just this newly found hope and a sensation like a fist tightening around Sam's gut.

"So... so - what about Dad?" he asks, voice even lower than before, barely a breath crossing his lips.

Dean glances at the man and his expression is pained for a moment before he shakes his head.  
"Fuck, I don't know, Sam. I can't change his mind. He's dead set on it, and, you know, he's - he's right about some things, too. Like that - it's just not safe for you with us."

"Dean, you're the only person in the world I trust right now."

A small smile appears and disappears from Dean's lips. He nods.  
"Yeah, you know, I'm not that - not that worried about myself. I know I wouldn't hurt you."

The unspoken part makes them both uneasy. Sam fights through it, avoids thinking too much about it, and considers his options. He has two choices: to make sure he gets out before it's too late and that there's nothing that can stop him, or to tell his brother what he's about to do and risk everything for the chance that Dean will see things his way. He's afraid, and the fear burns at his throat and constricts his chest so that it's hard for him to breathe again, but in the end, the stronger power at play wins over: hope.

"I can't do it, Dean," he whispers, and his voice is tired again, empty yet heavy in tone, "and I won't. While you two were arguing earlier, I checked Dad's phone - he's going to meet this guy tomorrow around two in the afternoon, just him and the dad of whoever he's selling me off to. And when he comes back, I won't be here anymore. I've got everything packed, I have enough money to make it a state over at least, and... I'm going to do it, because it's the only choice I have."

"You're going to run? Are you crazy?" Dean hisses, throws a scared look towards John's turned back and then at Sam again.

Sam just smiles - the smile doesn't reach anywhere near his eyes, which feel and look as tired as he is.

"Dude, you're going to get yourself killed, or worse. There's a freaking reason I'm up your ass twenty-four hours a friggin' day!"

"So what's the alternative, Dean? I already told you - it doesn't matter to me who rapes me, because someone will, either way. At least this way I can pretend it doesn't _have_ to happen. I'm not going to let Dad hand me over like I'm some animal. I'm going to run because it's the only way I have a shot at surviving this. And if I die trying, at least I die knowing it's on my own terms."

"You _are_ crazy. _And_ suicidal."

"Yeah. Probably. So, are you going to stop me?"

Dean bites his lip.  
"No," he says then, dead serious, "I'm not. But you're not going alone. Not that close to a heat, you're not."

"You said it yourself, Dad's never going to -"

"I'm not talking about Dad. I'm talking about me. He'd never let you go, not in a thousand years, because he's not insane like we are. But if you think I'll just let you run off and never know what happened to you, you don't know me at all. No, Sam, I'm coming with you. We can make it together, but alone you don't stand a chance."

Sam swallows thickly. His whole body is tingling and cold, his fingers barely bend like he's stood outside in a blizzard for hours.  
"You'd do that for me?" he asks, breathless.

"Hell yes I would do that for you. Who do you think I am?"

For the first time in days, a genuine smile spreads on Sam's face. He still doesn't believe it - that Dean would set aside his loyalty for their father and run off with him - but he can't help but trust the way Dean looks at him, and at least try to believe that something, for once, would go right for them.

"You've got a gun?" Dean asks him.

Sam nods.  
"And a couple blades, anything I'd use on a hunt."

"Good. I'll keep mine. But we need to hike a couple miles and hotwire a car that doesn't stand out, we can't take the Impala - it's too obvious, too easy to track."

Sam nods again, and Dean grimaces.

"Damn, just saying that hurts. Man, I love that car."

A small huff gets past Sam's guard and he rolls his eyes.  
"You just got it, too. You sure you don't want to stay for it?"

"Yeah, let me just trade off my little brother for a goddamn car. No, I'm pretty sure I don't want to stay for it, Sam."

"Car theft it is, then."

 

* * *

 

"Keep an eye on him, Dean. Don't let anyone in or out."

"Geez, Dad."

"I know, I know. It sounds like he's a prisoner. But we can't risk this now, you know that."

John glances towards Sam, sitting cross-legged on the bed staring at the TV like he isn't hearing them. His scent lingers in the air as a constant undertone, and if he's not wrong, John seems relieved to get out of the room. He's concerned. Dean's just tense.

 _Keep talking like I'm not even in the room with you,_ Sam thinks and his nose twitches.

"I'm not gonna let anyone in, and I'm not gonna lose sight of Sam. Gotcha."

"Not even for a coke. If he wants one -"

"I get it for him."

Something else twitches in Sam. He turns his head towards the door and his eyes are blazing with green fire. John catches his eyes and a shadow moves over his own; it paints them dark as he sighs and moves away.  
"I'll be back in a couple hours."

"Yes, sir," Dean responds and watches him move away, down the stairs towards the parking lot.  
Once the door closes, the man turns back and crashes on his bed, body open towards Sam's direction.  
  
"He took the Impala. So I guess we're clear on the plan, then."

It's the first time either of them mentions the plan since falling asleep. Sam shifts, tries to cover the half-hard state of his cock inside his jeans, paranoid that Dean will take notice. He can't make it go away anymore. It just is there, all the time, throbbing but not growing to full length, with only moments of flaccidness between the semi-erections. His blood pressure feels up, too, as if something's steadily drumming against his ears. But the worst is the wetness between his buttocks, constantly there no matter how many times he fakes a bathroom break. It's been five days since he noticed the changes, and it's just getting worse and worse and worse every day.  
He tries to break out from the discomfort and concentrate on leaving. Nervousness tingless at his heartstrings and he shudders with anticipation and anxiety.

"You think we can pull this off?" he asks quietly, suddenly afraid to even leave the motel room.  
It's not the plan itself - he knows how to run, how to cover his tracks, knows because he's been learning the art his entire life. No, it's the rest of it, the veil of heat that he drags around with him everywhere he goes like a neon sign for the rest of the population. _Take me,_ it screams. _Take me now._

"Of course. It's not like I haven't done it before. Well, not from Dad, but from a lot of sticky situations anyway. And he's not gonna send his pals after us either, not with you like that. He wouldn't take the risk and he knows he can trust me to keep you safe. Anyone else? Hunters aren't the most reliable _or_ sensitive folk you want to handle a family matter. Trust me, as long as we get far enough from Dad on a car that doesn't look, smell or sound like us and has a hundred of its kind jacked every week, we'll be alright."

Sam nods. He's more worried about the part where they _get_ the car.

"When do we go?" he breathes out nervously, turning an anxious look towards Dean.  
Yesterday, he was the master of his own plan. Now he's just a little brother again, relying on Dean to know what to do and when to do it. It'd annoy him if he wasn't so grateful that Dean's there in the first place.

"In twenty, once we're in the clear. Who knows, he might still come back if he's left something or, hell, if the meeting's called off."

Sam nods again.

"We need more time than that to get far enough, but if he's out there for an hour and a half, it's still plenty enough for us to get a headstart," Dean continues.

"You think he'll know what's up right away?"

Dean smiles wearily.  
"Yeah, he'll know. He'll know right when he opens the door and we're not here anymore. But hey, Sam, stop worrying about it. Spare it for if something goes wrong."

"Right."

"So, what's your grand plan?"

Sam lifts his brows.  
"My what?"

"Your grand plan. What you're gonna be doing once you're clear. You weren't just charging off into the night without a plan, were you?"

Sam grimaces. He looks down at his socks and starts picking lint from them.  
"It's stupid," he admits then, "if you didn't come with me, I wouldn't have - I know what I was planning wasn't realistic, but it's everything I've got, so don't laugh at me."

"You're the mastermind behind this scheme, Sam, I'm just a pawn. Tell me. What are we in for once we've got the car?"

Their eyes meet again and Sam considers it for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he gives in.  
"Fine. I thought - I thought I would find a sanctuary, but being with you, I don't have to do that. Any motel will do. Of course, we need money for that, so..."

"I'm here for that, ready to hussle."

"Yeah. At least while I'm still in heat. After that, I'll do my part."

"Obviously."

"So, I've got enough money for the first few nights, like I said I've been saving up for this and motels have always been the plan B if I can't find a sanctuary that'd take a runaway in. If the rates are cheap, that's enough to keep me covered until the heat's over. If not, well, I figured I'd worry about that then."

Dean looks at him with a hint of a smile.  
"You ever thought of selling your bond?" he asks gently, and Sam hates the tone he's chosen.

He grimaces, looks away.  
"I did. And I would have, if it came to that."

Dean nods slowly.  
"Well, now it won't. Shit, Sam, I'm so glad you told me. This would have - seriously, you would have fucked yourself over six ways to Sunday on your own."

A quiet chuckle leaves Sam's lips and he nods.  
"Yeah. I guess. But I'd do that for freedom, you know?"

"So would I," Dean admits, "So I can't blame you. But I'm still glad that - it doesn't have to come to that."

He shifts, too, and Sam tries not to pay attention to the way he adjusts his clothes. It's not just him anymore. Time's running out.

"After that," he pushes on, trying to cheat himself out of worrying, "I'm gonna keep studying. I know you think it's stupid, but I want out of this life, Dean."

Dean's expression falls. It's his turn to look away, and he does; for a moment, he's quiet before shrugging it off sharply.  
"You think any school's gonna take you?" he asks, turning his gaze back to Sam, "I mean - it's not the grades, I know you're a geek, but it's just, you're not claimed. You're practically a walking, talking -"

"- disturbance. I know. But there are omega projects. Stanford has one."

"You're looking into _Stanford?_ " Dean asks him, brows raised.

"Yeah. I wanna study law, Dean. I don't know if it's gonna work out, but... besides, what do you think I can do as a hunter, anyway? The community's all alpha. You think I'd fit in there even if I tried?"

"Not unclaimed, no."

"Yeah. So, like... what choice do I have?"

Dean shrugs again. Sam watches him for a while, tries to fight off the anger he feels at seeing his bitter expression - he should be rooting for him, but he's not, and Sam can't understand why. What else he could he want for him?

"What about you?" he asks instead, the question a little sharper than he intended.

Dean looks at him and he seems taken aback by the question. The bitterness doesn't fade, but at least he seems to be considering a real answer.  
"I don't know. I thought I'd just keep hunting, but if you're gonna be chasing some fucked up freedom vision, I guess I'd have to stay around to cover your ass, right? I mean, what choice are you leaving me?"

It takes a moment for Sam to gather the courage, but he deflects Dean's angry voice and chooses a sincere one for himself.  
"You could keep studying, too. I know you've got what it takes, Dean, and this - this doesn't have to be your life, either."

"What if I want it to be my life, Sam? Imagine that, maybe I don't want the same things as you do."

"Shocker," Sam grunts and moves back to pulling lint off his socks.  
After a minute of silence, he glances towards the clock on the wall and grimaces.  
"We have to go," he says.

Dean takes another look and nods - the anger washes off of him and Sam can see him slip back into his mission mode.  
"Let's get this done then, lawboy," he nods and the smile he turns towards Sam is genuine, as if the tension from just a moment ago never existed at all, "let's go find that America everybody's come looking for."

 

* * *

 

They grab an old Toyota off of the yard of a house that looks like it's empty for the day. Nobody stops them, which they take as a final confirmation; it's a little too much like a car that John would be looking into first, but it's also one that will blend in and once they're across the state border, nobody should be looking at the thing twice. Dean kicks the pedal down and sends them rushing through the slim traffic of an early working day afternoon, and in no time at all they're out of town, wheels carrying them across the rural area towards the mountains again. To Sam's surprise, Dean seems to be in a great mood: he's singing along with a godawful country station on the broken radio like it's the best thing he's ever heard, and he drives fast and smooth like a man riding for home. They stop at a diner and grab burgers to go, then take a sharp turn away from west and keep heading north for a while with no proper destination in mind.

"It's best if we don't know where we're going," Sam reasoned when they first left the yard, "He can't follow us by logic if there's no rhyme or reason to where we're going."

"Right you are, little brother," Dean told him back and started heading out into the vastness of roads and connections surrounding them, "Right... you... are."

Two hours later, the first call comes in. Dean lifts his phone, looks at the screen with a frown for a moment, then shuts the whole thing off and tosses it on the backseat. He turns to Sam, grinning.  
"Get rid of that thing," he encourages him, "we'll chuck them off to the first puddle or a stream we find, alright? We'll get new ones later."

Sam nods. He takes his phone apart, opens the window and starts scattering the parts on the road behind them - a large truck chews the plastic and glass into shreds, leaving nothing behind. The horn of it sounds like death itself is riding behind them, and Dean's laughing: Sam watches him, looks at his hand patting the worn wheel of the car, and he's never felt as good about car theft before in his life.

"Man, that guy's pissed off. Don't litter the road!" the older brother grins, turning to adjust the rear-view mirror a little before speeding up again.

Sam feels his body weight into the seat and realises that for the first time in days, he's not feeling the heat. All he's feeling is a rush of happiness, _freedom_ , and he bites into his greasy roadside burger like it's the best meal he's had in years.

 

* * *

 

Home is a shabby motel in Wyoming. No alphas in the building, none beside Dean at the very least, and no other omegas around either. Sam feels at ease as he throws himself on the bed, shivering although he's not entirely sure why, his heavy bag at the foot of the bed and his big brother already unpacking his own although he's only been back for five minutes. The adrenaline rush is finally wearing off, and it's late at night already, late enough for the day to remain as a heavy memory in their limbs. The scentscape is a mixture of a chili-seasoned salad, smoked salmon and Sam's heat, and in Sam's nose, the heavy, earthy scent of his alpha brother sitting close by, but he's concentrating on anything but that, on anything but the growing hardness inside his jeans and the low dull humming inside his brain that grows stronger every time he pays attention to Dean.

"Where did you ditch the car?" he asks his brother, eyes closed and lips staying parted for breath after he's done.

"A town over near a hospital," Dean replies in a carefree tone of voice, "Caught a bus back here and hiked the last mile or so. We should be pretty much as hidden as two burning flares can be."

"Good."

"Yup. Damn, though, I'm done for."  
The older drops the gun he was cleaning onto the pile of clothes at his feet and rubs at his neck.  
"That was a rough ride, I'll tell you that."

"Regret coming with me yet?" Sam asks him, peering out of one eye.

"Not one bit."  
There's a moment's silence before he continues, seeming thoughtful when he does.  
"You know, right about now, you could have that creep sweating over you. Makes you think, right?"

Sam shudders. His cock twitches at the thought and he pushes his face into his pillow until his breath runs normal again.  
"Don't talk about it," he grunts and tangles a toe up in his sock, twisting it off his foot and then the one from the other, "or I'll throw up."

He doesn't know how he's going to sleep. He's got an eye on the bathroom door - will Dean let him handle this, make it easier for the night, or will he start asking questions? He glances at his brother next, and Dean seems worn out, hair sticking into every and each direction like he's ran his hand through it a million times. Maybe he'll just go to bed instead.

"Yeah, I don't like thinking about it either, I'll tell you that. But it's just, Sammy, we pretty much saved your ass tonight. For real. This could have been it, but you're here now. You don't have to go through it, you know?"

Dean looks back at Sam with an amazed look in his eyes, radiating relief and something Sam can't really put a finger on. He nods slowly, pulls himself up from the bed and throws his dirty socks on top of his bag.

"Yeah. It's - I'm still working on that, I guess. I mean, pretty much my whole life I thought I'd never need to - that somehow, maybe I wouldn't come in heat. Maybe it'd just be me, you and Dad my whole life. And then this happened and I realised I can't get away from it, that my life as I want it is going to end and I'm going to be stuck living a nightmare, you know? And now I'm here, and... I don't know if I'm safe yet. If I can stop worrying about it and - and just live."

"Right. Yeah, I guess you'd still be pretty freaked out."  
Dean looks at his hands and chuckles, wiping a streak of black off of the side of his thumb before looking at Sam again.  
"But I can promise you one thing," he says then, "Whatever comes, you're safe tonight. So grab a shower and go to bed, you've got a rough thing coming for you. We should probably concentrate on that from now on."

Slowly, Sam nods.  
"Yeah," he finally says, standing up.  
"I guess that's the next problem we need to figure out."

"It's just biology, Sam. Not a problem."

When he locks the door of the shower behind him, Sam wishes he could be as trusting as Dean sounds. He pulls off his jeans, then stands there for a while, long shirt covering his upper thighs but not the erection pressing against his underwear. He runs a hand over it, then moves underneath his shirt, and there's a wet spot by the tip already. Touching it makes him shudder again, and he lets out a quiet little moan that he hopes won't be audible through the door - he's so sensitive, so goddamn needy like he's never been in his life before, and all without reason. Frustrated, he strips off the shirt and his underwear and moves underneath the shower. The water's warm, at least, and he washes the dirt of the road and the dust from the car off his skin, palms running flat over his chest and his arms, splashing water over his arm pits, rushing over his sides feeling the rows of ribs underneath his skin as he stretches out for better reach. He skips his hips and his ass in favour of his thighs, legs and feet, but bending over sends a blinding rush of heat through him and he can _feel_ himself growing wet again. His cock brushes against his stomach and he straightens up again, eyes closed and lips parted. Suddenly, even through the smell of the chlorine water and the bathroom's cleaning detergents, he can smell Dean, and it's all downhill from there. His scent lingers just beneath his nose like someone's pressing a cloth over his face, and every time he breathes in, it's intoxicating again, and his cock is leaking, precome running down along the tip and underneath the crown. With a thud, his back hits the wall, and he's got his hand running over his length already, blinded, unable to breathe, unable to think, the scent enveloping him and making his hips quiver and push into the touch of his own hand. His knees go weak, and he's on the floor without a sound, water rushing over his body as he reaches his other hand behind him, fingers sliding into his body through his hot-feeling hole, his flesh throbbing: he can feel his own pulse against his fingers through the muscles clamping down around them.

It's not the first time he's fingered himself, but this isn't anything like he's done before. He can feel every movement like he's touching bare nerves, yet there's neither pain nor fulfillment in his touches. He can't get enough and it's like drowning, he's three fingers and two knuckles deep and his shoulder _hurts_ from the angle of his hand. He's gasping, whimpering, as he thrusts with his hand and tries to reach some aching point inside his body that needs to be touched as if he's going to die if he can't reach it. And he can't - his fingers just won't go deep enough, they're not _thick_ enough, and he's shaking from frustration with tears in his eyes. His hand has left his cock and it's just holding him in balance now against the filthy floor as his other hand drills his hole, trying to satisfy that need inside him in vain, but he can feel an orgasm building up despite the sense of futility drumming inside his mind. And when it comes, he's pressing his head onto his arm collapsed onto the floor, shaking, breath torn from him, and he's soaking wet not only from the water but his own scented, pheromone-filled sweat and the slick covering his fingers and running down his taint and over his thighs. There's no white in his come, it's clear and he loses sight of it when it hits the floor in bursts, but relief spreads into his limbs with each squirt his cock pumps out until he's just a trembling mess against the tiles on the floor, gasping for air and fingers caressing his stretched hole until the slick is washed off by the water still running down his body. It's cooling down now, and some distant shade of sense is telling him to get up and get finished, wash off the sweat from his body, but before he manages to do anything, he hears a thud on the door. He freezes for just a second, eyes wide, staring at the white back of it, but there's no other sound that he can make apart through the shower's white noise, and even though he expects the door to open (a part of him _hopes_ that it will, _needs_ it to open), it stays shut and locked like before.

Finally, when the water's already cold and he's shivering from that alone, feeling drenched like he's been caught in a downpour, he stands up on trembling legs and lathers his whole body with the soap offered to him until he's all foam and dry skin from the effects of it. The water washes it off, leaving him cold but at least feeling clean, and he turns off the flow and wipes himself dry on a big, soft towel - at least the motel's got something right despite its ridiculously cheap rates.

His heart drums hard against his chest once he's all changed into a new set of clothes, warm light-grey sweatpants hugging his scrubbed legs with its soft fabric and a brown t-shirt still good to go despite a hole on the underside of the sleeve, aching as he prepares to open the door.

 _The hell do you think you're gonna find in there?_   he asks himself, but the feelings of dread, anxiety and  _anticipation_ don't wear off with the words ringing inside his head.

He tries to shake them off, but he's still nervous when he wipes his wet-sticky hair off his forehead again, and his arm is shaking as he finally convinces himself to open the lock and push the handle down. This door doesn't creak - it opens quietly into an emtpy room.

"Dean?" he calls out, but Dean's nowhere to be found.

_Shit._

 

* * *

 

The corners of the window are frosted over. Sam peers into the dark lot ahead, scarcely lit by yellow lamps scattered here and there between the cars and trailers parked in front of the motel. He can see his brother pacing there, hands inside the pockets of his jeans, breathing clouds of mist and leaving behind footprings in the flattened, dirty snow, arms bare as he's wearing no jacket over his shoulders. He's agitated: his whole body is tense, his steps lacking bounce, each greeting the ground like the soles of his feet are magnets and the earth is made of metal. Sam swallows thick, lets the curtains fall back in place and shifts, moves away from the window. Despite the bone-deep orgasm he had, his cock is giving an effort again - Dean's scent lingers all over the room and he's desperate to open a window, get some air just like Dean's doing, but there's nothing to open and nowhere to go. Instead, he sits on his bed and pulls the blanket over himself, presses the fabric over his nose and breathes in the scent of detergents and dry polyester and cotton to cover it up. His heart is still racing, gripped by something that resembles fear, and his mind is working at an overdrive trying to keep itself from figuring out what he's scared of in specific. His eyes linger at the sight of Dean's bed, the wrinkly covers he's left behind after standing up, his half-unpacked bag and the gun's handle peeking out from underneath a shirt he's dropped there.

His scent is... deep, overpowering. It's not sweet-like like Sam's, but as if freshly turned earth instead with something else mixed in, something almost spicy, like one of the exotic incenses used in protective rituals, only stronger, as if the room is burning alight with a hundred of them at once. Breathing it, which Sam can't avoid, not even with the cloth against his face, makes his body tingle all over. It's crawling with desire, _need_ , like he's never felt before: it's a pressure inside his pelvis, a thundering loud weight inside his head making his thoughts slow down and disorganize. There's no sense in it, in the pull that he feels because of it, and even though he's looking for a way out - somewhere to run away from the spell that's taking over him - he doesn't feel like escaping it anymore. It has its claws deep inside his flesh, tugging, nudging him demandingly, like the hunger he felt once when they ran out of money and there was nothing Dean could have fed him for two days. No, even stronger than that, something he wonders if the men lost in forests or mountains feel like just before they turn into wendigos, their minds twisted beyond recognition, animalistic, consumed by starvation and the futile drive for fulfillment they'll never feel again.

The cloth slips off of his face, and his fists grip it white on his lap instead. He breathes in again, deep, eyes closed, and presses his fisted hands and the blanket against his cock, now hard again underneath the soft fabric of his sweatpants. His body experiences a tremor like he's swallowed up an earthquake, and when he opens his eyes, he sees a shadow by the window. The lock turns.

What comes in is not quite Dean. His movements are off, still as tense as before, wary, like a black panther stalking for prey but sensing danger in its vicinity at once. He blocks the only way out with his body as the door closes behind him, and Sam realises he's been out barefooted: his shoes still sit beside the wall, and his feet look red all over in the light of the reading lamp beside Dean's bed. His eyes are sharp, wider than usual, and his pupils seem off, enlarged and almost pushing the green out of sight entirely - his nostrils flare a little, the tip of his nose and the span of his cheekbones blush with cold.

A strange sensation relaxes Sam's muscles. His mind is empty, there's nothing on it as he stares at Dean and sees him stare back, just blank submission, and he feels like an open canvas in front of his brother; the smell in the room has taken over, and he barely feels it anymore. Everything moves slowly as Dean runs his fingers over the door and locks the security chain in place. It clings, and the sound echoes in the silence that follows: his steps are inaudible in the room as he moves to the lamp beside the table, turns it off with a rough yank at the string hanging from underneath the shade. They're consumed by the dark, and for a moment, Sam's blind. When his eyes recover sight, his mind wondering idly how wide his own pupils are now in the relief of the blinding bright light that was previously barely enough for him to see, Dean's sitting on his own bed, breathing, shaking, head bent down and arms so tense he can see the outlines of muscles underneath his skin as lights from outside bend along his smooth skin creating shadows around and underneath them.

"I'm sorry, little brother."  
Dean's voice is hoarse, as shaky as he seems, and when he looks up there's regret in his eyes.  
"I can't - keep acting like - like nothing's wrong. Like I'm not - like I don't _feel_ this, and it's - it's almost like... like I don't even want to hold back. And I can't. I tried, I - I'm still, I guess - I just can't... You get it, right?"

Sam feels a smile twitch at his lips. He's breathing through his mouth, heavy and still lacking oxygen as something else entirely rushes into his brain, and his tongue runs a circle over the soft expanse of his lips. His hips twitch, and he suddenly realises how _wet_ he is, and the movement makes him all too aware of the overpowering scent that envelopes him again. He draws in air to say something, but there's nothing on his mind, and instead, he falls back on his bed, collapses slowly onto his elbows, eyes never leaving Dean from his sight. The older twitches, too, and then he's up and over Sam: his hands press against the mattress on both sides, and Sam barely has the time to pull his legs in from the side of the bed before Dean's knee sets between them, kicks them apart and has him pressing against Sam's body. He's _hard_ , harder than Sam thinks he's ever been, and his cock presses beside Sam's, hot and thick inside his jeans. Dean's face pushes against his neck and his teeth are nipping at his skin, and he's lying on his back completely relaxed, breathing in and out in deep, slow inhales and exhales that make up the soundtrack of his life. Dean grinds against him for a moment, trembling, fingers now around Sam's arms, fingertips and nails pressing into his flesh until he aches, leaving bruises behind.

"I'm so... fucking... _sorry_ , Sam, I can't... I can't hold it back, shit."

His words are hardly more than gasps, but he _is_ holding back, Sam hears it in his voice, holding back still from giving in entirely, and he suddenly realises how much he _loves_ his brother, how much he trusts him. Right after that comes the realisation that he's not even struggling with it anymore: this feels right, even in the midst of the hollow screams inside his head like a choir trying to remind him that it's wrong, wrong, wrong, _wrong._ He could laugh from relief. It's logical - it just _makes sense_.

His hand reaches onto Dean's neck and he strokes him once gently, if urgently, leaving his palm resting over the curve of his spine.  
"It's alright, Dean," he hears himself say, parting his legs and wrapping one loosely around Dean's, "it's better this way."

He hears his brother gasp, body tensing and then relaxing again, and Dean's breath remains erratic for a moment before he regains control. His teeth nip at Sam's neck again as if in frustration, the animal in him whispering in his ear, angry because it hasn't yet won the full control of him.  
"How the fuck is it better this way?" he breathes, the rough growl of his voice reminding Sam of a predator about to pounce.

"Once you've claimed me," Sam manages to say, panting, breathless, voice broken, "I can _live._ I won't be - desired anymore. My scent will change. And no one - no one will know it was my own brother."  
He laughs, his back arching and pressing him more firmly against Dean, cock sliding against the hardness inside Dean's pants.  
"We already smell the same," he continues, barely able to form the words, neck bared as Dean's lips are already working over it, "We _are_ brothers. We're family. No one will know it was you. You'll leave - you'll leave no mark."

"But you'll still have me," Dean swears, speaking in breaths against Sam's neck, "You won't be alone, you won't be an outcast, because you _have_ an alpha, a pack. I'll be there for you. I'll never - Sam, I'll _never_ leave, I promise, I won't - won't take another."

"You're the only person I trust," is the only thing Sam manages to say and he laughs again, can't hold it back. It makes so much fucking sense: they already have a bond. They've already sworn to each other that no matter what, it'll be the two of them against the world. It may have been a childish promise, one full of naivety, void of understanding of the bigger picture, but they've held onto it regardless. What does it matter if they're mated, too? What will it change? What more is it than a renewal of that promise, a biological bond to match the one they already have, one soul to another? Fuck society: fuck the taboo, the concept of a wasted omega, the stigma that'll follow them or even send them to their graves if anyone ever finds out what they've done.  
"Make sure that no one else - _no one_ \- looks at me twice again. That every time I come in heat, people will know I'm already someone else's. Make me invisible. You're the only - you're the only one who can. Who has the _right_."

The next bite aches deep. Sam shudders, the back of his head digging into the pillow as his fingertips claw at Dean's back, still covered by his black t-shirt. Dean struggles to stay on top of it, but finally he wins, lips turning gentle against Sam's skin again as he pulls away, every second a miracle of willpower as he looks into Sam's eyes without tearing into him again.

"I'm so, so fucking sorry," he breathes out, and Sam's scared to see the clearness in his eyes, the light bending from the water caught in his eyes, and to hear that wavering in his voice, "that I can't stay away - that out of all people, the one who raped you was me."

Sam's breath hitches, and he feels a distinctive burn in his own eyes as well. He's still scared: his whole body is a meltdown of freezing cold and burning hot, an endless swirl of conflicting extremes. Through it all, he barely manages to shake his head.  
"I consent," he manages to say, his next breath catching in his throat, "You can claim me. I want you to."

 

* * *

 

Dean's body presses into Sam's with ease, like it was always meant to be his other part, a piece of a puzzle locking in place. He's firm, thick as the crown of his cock opens up Sam's hole, slides in rubbing at his extremely sensitive flesh, followed by his silky-smooth shaft and the light bump of his knot, not yet swollen to full size, not before he's in and his hips have instinctively sought out the first thrusts that fill Sam's eyes with white lights and make him moan out a long sound of pure overwhelming pleasure. His hips grind against Dean's, ready to take the knot as it swells inside him, and he feels every extra inch of it from the first moment it grows until it's filling him up, locking them together. His brother's breathless, hissing as he struggles to remain in control, and Sam's heard stories about that before - how an alpha can tear an omega inside out on the first knot, being too eager, too rough from the beginning. He's not scared anymore, however. He can't fit that feeling in his vastly shrunken array of experiences. It's all just their bodies joining, the heat burning up his hips, the sensation of come dripping down from the tip of his cock onto his stomach. There's nothing else he needs but to feel the tightening of his hole around Dean's cock, the press of the knot against his opening, and the length thrusting deeper into him, rubbing at his flesh, making him feel full and somehow like they're being woven together.

It's not just arousal that's welling around inside of him. The high he's experiencing is not just that from a building orgasm, one that already feels like it'll wipe him out completely when it comes, but he's practically feeling his whole chemistry reorganize. This is what his body's been made for - what it's waited for, what it's built up to for the past months that led up to his first heat. He's just waiting for the seed to fill him up, for the particles from Dean to enter him so that he can be remodeled after him, so that he can become _Dean's_. There's a sensation of expectation as his flesh holds onto Dean, just waiting to become something new, something forever changed by this experience, and there's not an ounce of regret in him. His heart is beating rhythm into the noise of his blood rushing through his body, and his hands hold Dean's arms tight, gripping at his shoulders as Dean moves down over him, his thrusts turning deeper and faster. Their lips join, driven by instinct rather than feeling: Sam barely tastes the other's saliva, but it's full of the same components that his body is imprinting to. And Dean's nipping at his lips, at his ears, even the tip of his nose which prompts a growl from deep within Sam's chest, a beastly warning; it makes Dean laugh, that familiar grin spread on his face as he bends his head down again and pounds into Sam, making the frustration disappear to a firework of intense euphoria. Sam has his legs tied around Dean's waist, hips thrusting back to every movement of Dean's against him, needing to be closer somehow, as if urging his whole body to melt together with his brother's. There are sparks everywhere underneath his skin, and after it's gone on for a while, his hands part from Dean's body and turn to gripping the blanket underneath them instead. He tears at it, blinded, mouth stuck in a soundless scream, head rubbing against the mattress, neck exposed and tense with muscles painted sharp to define its shape, choking on his own inability to draw in air again. He's dizzy and his ears are ringing as Dean picks him up, pulls him on his lap like he weights nothing at all, and he grounds himself to his knees and starts rocking onto his cock, needy and aggressive like there's an alpha gene hidden somewhere in him, activating at the peak of his pleasure. It's his turn to bite Dean now; his teeth dig into his shoulder and he gnaws at it, takes another firm hold of the man's neck and leaves a red mark on it. Dean's hands grip his hips, grind him down over his cock, his knot heavy and full and hard inside Sam, rubbing at all the right spots inside him and sending electricity into his body spark by spark until he feels like he's on fire.

The bed creaks underneath them, its firm frame resisting the movement but the springs inside the mattress bending in their rhythm, unused to the violent thrusts that bend it constantly and bring it down with the weight of two bodies combined. Its sounds are joined by those of Dean's, and he's moaning low and deep, sounding fulfilled yet hungry at once, but Sam's quiet, completely unlike an omega should: he's not making a sound, not one whimper gets past his guard. He feels like there's too much inside him at once blocking his vocal cords, keeping him mute as his body for once controls him instead of the other way around. There's no reason inside him at all, it's all a race for one purpose only: every atom in him wants to be claimed, wants to finish what started long before he ever felt the first fleeting cramp in the pit of his stomach. It's a transformation, a coming of age ritual, something that twists at his core and shreds the child in him apart so that the adult can grow in its place - he feels the loss somewhere as an aching emptiness, as a knot in his throat, but the need drives him on and soon he finds himself on his back again, being driven deeper into the embrace of the blanket surrounding him as Dean presses into him, his whole body slick with sweat, one hand deep in Sam's hair just pulling at it, tugging, and even though his scalp is sore and protests to it, Sam doesn't want him to stop. He wants to be spread thin over the bed, to be undone and then built again, and Dean's doing it all to him: his body's sending him into a lockdown where his whole existence is concentrated on a single spark inside him slowly growing brighter, like a flame being brought alive on a slow-motion film.

It ignites him, turns him inside out, and the voice that he's been holding back is let out: he sounds like a man, and like there's an open wound on his side, like he's dying, like he's crying, as he clings onto Dean and feels his body fill up with his brother's semen, struggling to stay aware through an orgasm so powerful that it doesn't even remotely resemble anything he's been through before. He can feel it pulling at his teeth, clamping at his throat, piercing through his stomach like a drill and clawing at his spine until he's nothing but melted warmth, a trickle of chocolate syrup over skin, something freshly reborn and vulnerable, not quite completely finished yet.

He feels Dean's breaths over his neck, the touch of his upper lip against his skin not in a kiss but lingering as he's not fully there yet, just as undone as Sam is, trying to remember who he is and what it is like to be an individual, something not a physical part of another soul but a man with two legs and two hands and a head on his shoulders. There's a rasp to his breath, something caught between his throat and his lungs, a sharpness each time he inhales until he finally, after a century or so, clears his throat and it disappears. His knot shrinks in pulses, but it takes its time: Sam feels it distantly, his body still tingling, with pins and needles over his arms and his cheeks and a sandpapery feel over his lips from God knows what. They separate without a sound, a leak of come and slick following Dean's cock out from Sam's body. His muscles contract to keep it in, and he's not in control of how his body relaxes, contracts, relaxes, contracts, pulse after pulse tugging at his semi-flaccid cock and aching at its tip and somewhere inside his body. He's wasted, nothing but a weight on the bed, and his breaths are short but heavy.

A silence full of catching breaths falls over the room. Sam has no idea how loud they've been, how many other people are aware that he's been claimed tonight, that this was his first, and that nothing is the same now as it was half an hour ago. He struggles to remember if they introduced themselves as brothers at the reception and feels mortified when he realises they did: Dean needed to remind himself, he realises, needed to talk away the expectation of this so that he could escape the inevitability of it for just a few more hours. They're still close, side by side, and Dean has his arm across his stomach, the other in his hair, and he's rubbing at his head like trying to make sense of something. Sam's knees are up, pressed together, and his feet are buried in a crook of the blanket that has been kicked and kneaded into a mess underneath them, and his stomach is covered with his own come, clear and runny in contrast to Dean's thick and heavy still trickling down from his stretched, used hole onto the sheets below even though his legs are closed now.

The void inside him is taking over the slowly fading bliss, and a tear runs down his cheek on the side that Dean can't see. He feels it wet his hair and the tip of his ear and he sniffles a little, pretends it's just the dust making his nose drip by wiping his hand across the dry underside of it. Dean looks at him, and even though Sam doesn't look at him he knows there's an examining look on his face: Dean's doing what he always does, trying to evaluate how bad the situation is, how screwed they are exactly and if there's still a way for him to make it better. Sam's hole contracts slightly again as if to drive in that yes, they are indeed screwed, and there's nothing that can take it back now. He turns his head and his eyes meet Dean's, and they watch each other for a very long while doing nothing at all, at loss for words, until it all starts over again.

They mate three more times that night to consummate the bond, driven to it each time by instinct and a need for comfort and assurance equally. At the end, Sam doesn't even realise he's falling asleep: there's nothing left in him to give anymore, and he goes out like a light. By his side, his brother turns on his side and wraps an arm around him, the only shelter he has to offer, and they both sleep like that well into late afternoon.

 

* * *

 

Sam keeps taking the orange pill every morning for a solid week, even though the seed rarely catches on first mating. Days slip by them as the heat fades away, leaving behind a strange exhaustion that lasts for eight days straight and leaves them both sleeping in each day, sometimes napping through even the remaining hours whenever they don't have to go out to keep paying for the room. They've been on the run for three weeks, moving from motel to motel all over the state whenever they start feeling the burn, when one morning Sam pulls open the curtains to let the sun in and spots the Impala parked right in front of their room. His heart stops and ice flows into him, and he stumbles back, grasping the side of Dean's shirt and stopping him midway on the way to shower. He feels like a little child again, petrified, when he looks at his brother and lets the words out.

"Dad's here. He found us."

Dean drops the towel on his bed, a frown on his face: he's fallen pale, too, but he does what he needs to and moves to the window to make sure, as if there's a chance that Sam doesn't know the car he was raised in. He watches it for a long time without speaking, then lets the curtain fall back over the window again, frown only ever deeper than before.

"He's not in there," he states the obvious.

"He's probably at the reception, asking for us."

Dean nods. He looks at Sam for a while before a pained smile crosses his lips and the frown's gone.  
"I guess we can't stay invisible forever," he says in a defeated voice.

"He's going to kill us."

"No, kiddo. He's not going to kill _us_ \- he's just going to kill _me._ "

Sam grimaces.  
"What's the plan?" he asks, and Dean shrugs.

"I get killed?" he offers with a crooked smile, turning to the window again.  
He looks out of it for a moment, shudders and picks up his jacket from the back of a chair and pulls on his shoes.  
"Well, let's not keep him waiting."

Sam's rooted to the ground, still as cold as the weather outside. Dean spreads his arms and raises his brows.  
"You think you can hide in this room forever, Sam?" he asks him in a frustrated voice, "Put your clothes on and let's get going."

They cross the parking lot with Sam a step behind Dean. It takes an eternity, but when they finally reach the reception and push the door open, there's no one there but the old woman who checked them in three days earlier. She raises her eyes and looks at them for a second before looking through the papers on her desk and pulling out an envelope. She holds it out for Dean to take and adjusts her glasses before talking.

"Someone dropped this in earlier this morning," she tells them matter-of-factly, "Told me to give it to you two when you come asking."

"Who was it?" Dean asks, and Sam watches him tear open the envelope, suddenly afraid that something bad has happened to Dad.

"A guy in his forties, dark hair, a bit of a beard going on, wearing clothes like yours. Warm eyes. Didn't tell me his name."

"That's Dad," Sam mutters and picks the envelope from Dean's hands - Dean's taken out a piece of paper from it, and what remains inside are the keys to the car. Sam turns his eyes to the note and lifts his brows.  
"What's it say?"

There's a strange look in Dean's eyes, something of a depth or a shadow that masks whatever he's thinking. He stays quiet for a moment before swallowing and taking a breath as he looks at Sam and tries to smile.  
"You know how to read, don't you, college boy wannabe?" he says and hands the paper to his brother.

Sam takes it from him, and Dean takes the envelope instead, turning it upside down and sliding the keys onto his palm. He pockets them as Sam reads the note.

 

_To my boys_

_Dean - you left your car in Colorado. Thought you'd want it back, since I remember quite well how excited you were when I first handed you the keys._

_Sammy - I'm sorry. I should have known better. I should have listened to you, even when you weren't saying anything. The deal's off._

_I'm heading out to Missouri on a lead. I'm not saying where exactly, because it's better you two don't follow me for some time,  
but I'll keep my number so you can get in touch when you're ready. I left you some money inside the car, you know where to look for it._

_John._

 

The air feels thick when Sam breathes it in again, and his throat tangles up around it, forcing him to swallow. He slips the note back into the envelope and nods at Dean, then at the woman behind the counter.

"Thanks for keeping it for us," he says, and the woman gestures with her hand.

"That's what I'm here for," she says, still watching them as they nod and turn and walk away.

The winter air outside feels crisp and large bundled-up flakes are starting to fall again, but Sam doesn't mind it. His chest feels light and even the lethargy that has plagued him ever since the heat gave way seems less present all of a sudden, like he's physically grown lighter and can now finally carry his own weight without growing weary in seconds as a result of it. He follows Dean up to the car and looks through it with him, finding the array of weapons and necessities in its trunk intact, and a ziplock bag of a couple hundred dollars tucked underneath the front seat. They look at each other, Sam from the shotgun's side and Dean from the driver's, and the wind runs through Sam's hair as he stays there sending them all over his face, his brows raised and a smile on him. Dean's eyes have lit up too with a spark of excitement playing within the green, and they share a wordless agreement: all of a sudden the bitter aftertaste is gone, and freedom finally feels like heaven.

 


End file.
